Seasons At Cherry Tree Lane
by CozyMittens
Summary: Today's small moments are tomorrow's precious memories. A series of vignettes and scenes from life at Cherry Tree Lane. Not necessarily in chronological order and covering a range of family and friendship stories.
1. Chapter 1

Spring 1923

"Winifred where are you going?"

Winifred Banks stood in the hall of Number 17 in her new spring coat pulling on her gloves. " Out to the park George", she replied, "I feel a need to fly a kite. Would you like to come with me?" George caught sight of a battered green kite leaning against the door. "But the children aren't here," he protested. "No dear," she said gently, "the children are all grown up. But you still have me." "You're not a child Winifred." "Why no, no I'm not," she replied mischievously. "Whenever did you notice?"

It was a beautiful day to fly a kite. The green kite sailed effortlessly into the air and took its place in the sky over the park. George carefully sat on the blanket Winifred had spread on the grass and let the string play out as needed. Winifred settled in beside him. "I was very proud of you last night," she said. "You handled Michael and Kate's news very well. You didn't yell, at least not much."

"Did you know?" asked George. "Did they talk to you beforehand?" "No," said Winifred, "Not a word. I knew Michael was in love with Kate, that was fairly obvious, but nothing about the other."

"Of all the damn fool things to do!" George could feel his anger rising. "An artist, he thinks he can make a living as an artist! He's supposed to be at university studying so he can get a real job and what's he doing? Painting pictures and trying to sell them to magazines!"

"Not just trying," said Winifred. "He's sold two already. And that American magazine has asked him to do three illustrations for a Christmas story that will be published in December. He's very serious. Think of how hard he must have worked—knocking on publisher's doors and sending letters. Pictures don't just sell themselves no matter how good. He explained it all. The advertising and illustrations can pay the bills and he can paint larger, serious works that he can sell in galleries. He and Kate have it all worked out, and they have a budget."

"Budget," snorted George. "I know who worked out the budget. That was all Kate. Michael has never had any sense when it came to money. First birds, and now watercolors."

"Birds?" asked Winifred.

"Never mind," said George, "It was a long time ago. But marriage! What are they thinking! Michael just turned twenty! He's far too young."

"I was twenty when we got married," murmured Winifred.

"Yes, but I was 26. And I had a decent job and a little house all ready for us to move into. They're going to rent a flat. What kind of a place can they rent on their income. And Kate, Kate is a year older than Michael. She's Jane's friend."

"Don't be a fuddy-duddy George," said Winifred. "There's no rule that says the man has to be older than the wife. It's only a year, and we always said Jane and Michael were so close in age they were more like twins. Kate is a dear, sensible girl. How could you possibly object to Michael falling in love with her? She'll be good for Michael and as long as one of them can manage the money they should be all right."

"Oh you're right," George conceded. "Kate is a sweetheart. She's been Jane's friend for so long that she already feels like part of the family. But Michael is still too young. If he wants to be an artist let him work at it for a couple years, save some money and then think about getting married. Why be in such a hurry?"

"I think it was the war," said Winifred thoughtfully. "Michael was too young to fight, but you know for four years I couldn't really celebrate his birthday. Every year I looked at him and thought he's that much older. If it lasts much longer he may have to go. I think the children that grew up during the war feel like life is uncertain. They have to seize the day and do things while they have time."

She looked at her husband, her eyes shining. "George, lets not object or try to be sensible. Let's help them. We'll ask them to wait a year, until Michael is 21. That way Kate's mother and I can plan the wedding, and Kate can have all the fun of being a bride. Michael will think that's reasonable. And after the wedding they can live with us."

"What! With us?"

"Oh, we'll charge them rent. Exactly what they would pay for a flat if they rented one. But we won't spend a penny of the money. We'll put it into an account and you can invest it. Then in a couple of years we can give it to them and they can use it as down payment on a house of their own."

"Winifred you never cease to amaze me." George looked at his wife and smiled. " That is a brilliant idea. Beautiful and smart, do you think I'll ever deserve you?"

"Oh, maybe in a couple of years." Winifred moved closer to her husband and he put his arm around her. "You've come a long way George Banks since the day I married you. But I always knew you had potential. I'll make a modern man of you yet."


	2. Chapter 2

**Winter 1933**

Jane lived in a coldwater flat. She had a small kitchen area with a sink and running water, but there was no water heater for the building. A water closet in the hall across from her contained a stool and lavatory and was shared by all four of the apartments on her floor. For daily grooming and washing up, Jane heated water on her stove, but once a week she returned to Number 17 to use the bathroom. It was heaven, she had to admit, to wash her hair and soak in the tub.

This arrangement had been in place since Jane had moved into her flat. Neither Kate nor Michael wanted her to leave, saying there was plenty of room and they had all gotten along so well for so long there was no reason for her to move out. But Jane felt it was time to be on her own. She was nearly thirty and working, and she was a little tired of being labeled Michael's spinster sister by the neighbors. Reluctantly Kate and Michael agreed, but Kate had insisted that Jane have full use of the main bathroom whenever she needed it.

Jane had spent almost a month at Number 17 during the final days of Kate's illness helping Michael with the children. During that time she had taken on the responsibility of washing Annabel's hair. John's and Georgie's short hair made it easy for Michael to give them their baths and supervise their grooming, and they were of an age where they were often able to do it themselves. Annabel was more of a problem. Her long brown hair reached almost to her waist. She wore it like her mother and Aunt Jane when they were girls, down her back with a ribbon in front to keep it out of her eyes. Her fine hair had just enough curl that it snarled easily.

It had never been a problem. Kate loved brushing her daughter's hair and putting it in a braid at night. In the mornings she helped her brush it out and style it. Privately, Jane thought it was a lot of work. She enjoyed the freedom her short hair gave her. But Kate saw it differently. In a house full of males it was one of the things she and Annabel shared that was just for girls.

Michael had no idea how to handle Annabel's hair. He had tried washing it just once after Kate's passing and wound up calling Jane to come over and help. Jane had found Annabel wrapped in a towel, the soap still in her hair which was hopelessly snarled. It had taken Jane almost an hour to rinse her niece's hair and coax the stubborn knots out with a comb and brush. After that it was a given that Jane would wash Annabel's hair when she came over for her weekly bath. Usually the children had their baths before she arrived, so rather than putting Annabel back in the tub and getting her wet again, Jane had her lean over the side.

Michael did the best he could but his mornings were busy, trying to get ready for work and the children off to school. It was often Ellen who unbraided and brushed Annabel's hair. She was quick and efficient and it was easier to redo the braid than fuss with ribbons. Because mornings were so hectic, Michael made a point of brushing and redoing Annabel's hair every night. It was difficult work. The braid had often come undone by day's end and Annabel's tangled hair was a challenge. On the few days she wore her hair loose it was much worse. Michael knew he was pulling her hair, but she didn't complain so he thought he was doing all right.

"Aunt Jane," Annabel asked one night when Jane was washing her hair, "can I get my hair cut like yours?

It was such a good idea that Jane readily agreed and went ahead and made the appointment with her hairdresser. Annabel looked adorable in the new haircut. She practically danced into the house to show her father. She twirled in front of him and told him how nice it would be because now she could take care of it all by herself. Michael had been oddly quiet, but he told Annabel that he thought she looked very nice and he liked her hair very much. Only after she had gone up to the nursery did he turn his attention to Jane.

He was angrier than Jane had ever seen. How dare she do such a thing without asking him? If Kate had been alive she would have talked to her first. In the future she would talk to him about any decisions regarding the children. She was their aunt, but he was their father. He left the library, went up to his bedroom and closed the door.

He called her building later that night to apologize. He was sorry. It had just caught him off guard seeing Annabel with her hair cut short. Would she please come over to dinner tomorrow night so he would know that things were all right between them?

The following evening Jane tried to bring up the subject after dinner. Michael was right. She would have talked to Kate first before getting Annabel's hair cut. But Michael didn't want to talk about it. She realized something more was bothering her brother. But until he was willing to talk about it there was nothing she could say or do.

**Summer 1954**

"Mama, I need help," called a voice from the bathroom.

Annabel had her hands full trying to make formula and feed the new baby. "I can't help you now," she called. "Come out here in the kitchen and have Grandpa braid your hair."

"Grandpa can't braid hair," said Katie, coming into the kitchen with her brush and hair tie.

"Sure he can, he used to do it all the time when I was little," her mother told her.

"Well I don't know," said Michael. "You got your hair cut because I pulled it too much and wasn't doing a very good job."

"What are you talking about?" asked Annabel. "You did just fine. Mother used to be pull my hair too. There was this spot in the back that always got snarled. We used to laugh about it. I was just tired of having to lean over the tub when Aunt Jane washed it."

"Really?" asked Michael.

Katie had handed him the brush and was now standing with her back to him. He ran the brush through her golden hair and divided it into three sections. He started a braid down her back, just like he had done for her mother so many years ago.

"Really," said Annabel.

Notes:

I was a bucket of tears by the time Ben Whishaw finished his solo in Mary Poppins Returns. I was particularly struck by the line "I could surely use a few suggestions on how to brush our daughter's hair." But I also saw that Annabel's hair was short and low maintenance in the movie. What had happened and why did brushing Annabel's hair bother Michael as much as the difficult questions the boys were asking?


	3. Early Spring 1936

Jane lay in the bed of her old room in Number 17. The bed was bigger than the one she had slept in as a child and she was not alone. Jane looked over at Jack lying on his back, eyes closed with one arm over his head. It had not been her idea to come back to Cherry Tree Lane but the lease on their flat had run out the previous month. Michael had suggested that they temporarily move into the house at least until after the baby was born and they could find a larger flat. With Jack's odd work schedule Michael worried about Jane being alone. It had been on the tip of her tongue to say she was just fine when she noticed the look of relief on Jack's face. And maybe because she was a little worried herself, she gave in to the men in her life and let them have their way just this once.

It had been a good decision. The children were ecstatic to have Jack and Jane in the house, and Ellen's presence was a comfort that Jane had not expected. Between Jack and Michael, Jane often felt like a newly laid egg, clucked and fussed over by two mother hens. Truthfully, she thought she looked more like an egg every day, all round in the middle and kind of narrow on top. Her nest was certainly comfortable enough. Jane snuggled under the blankets and moved closer to the warmth of Jack's body.

"Luz."

"What?" said Jane startled. "I thought you were asleep."

"Luz," her husband replied. "You asked me earlier what I wanted to name the baby if she was a girl."

"How do you spell it?'

"L. U. Z."

Jane's forehead wrinkled in thought. She turned on her side and nestled spoon like against Jack while he pulled her close and let his hand drift over her stomach.

"Really, I'm not sure that will work. It sounds too much like 'loose,' and what about when people see it spelled out. They might pronounce it 'lose' or 'luzz' to rhyme with buzz."

"You don't like it."

"I didn't say that. I don't understand it. Maybe if you explain it to me. You must like it for some reason or you wouldn't have suggested it. I've never heard that name before."

Jack's sleepy voice, muffled by Jane's hair answered. "'S not an English name, 'S Spanish."

"Oddly enough I guessed that. But why is it special? Does it mean something?"

"Means 'light.'"

"Jack, that's beautiful!"

"I know, 's why I like it."

"It's a lovely name when you explain it, but I'm not sure how it will work for everyday. I can hear Georgie now calling her Loosey Gooosey. Wait that might work…how about Lucy?"

"Sorry…what?"

"Lucy. L.U.C.Y. We'll put Luz on the birth certificate, but we'll call her Lucy. It will be like your name."

"My name is Jack."

"I know, but that's not what's on your birth certificate. Luz will be her legal name, but most people will call her Lucy, just like most people call you Jack."

"Might work…"

"Of course it will work. There's just one problem. What if she's a boy?"

Jack didn't hesitate. "Well then there's only one name for her…him. That's Bert."

"Thought so—did Bert ever tell you if that was his full name?"

Jack chuckled. "I'm not even sure that was his real name. He told me once his name was Herbert Alfred but I never quite believed him. Maybe because my name was so different from what people called me."

"Bert can be short for quite a few names," mused Jane. There's Herbert, Hubert, Gilbert, Egbert, Robert, Adelbert…

"I refuse to name my son Egbert. Chose any of the others you want. I'll call him Bert either way." Jack yawned and closed his eyes.

"When we were little Mary Poppins took Michael and me to visit someone she called Uncle Albert. Bert called him Uncle Albert too. Maybe Bert was named after his uncle. How about Albert? If it's good enough for the Duke of York, it should be good enough for us."

But Jack was asleep, curled around Jane with his hand still resting on her rounded belly. Jane felt the baby move. She put her hand lightly over Jack's. "Soon little one, soon," she crooned. "We'll see who you're going to be—Luz or Albert, Lucy or Bert." Her hand stilled, a vague memory stirring in her mind. What was it about the name Albert, all those articles in the paper about baby names when the little princesses were born? Yes, that was it. Albert was a Germanic name from Adal "noble" and beraht "bright or shining." Beraht—Bert. Bert meant shining.

Jane smiled. She wondered if Jack realized the significance of the boy's name he had chosen. Light and shining, ideal names for a lamplighter's children. As Jane drifted off to sleep she realized that this was one of those rare moments when everything was perfect. She snuggled closer to her husband and closed her eyes.


	4. Spring 1934

Michael and Kate wanted her to stay with them, and she knew that it would have been the easiest thing to do. But everything in the house reminded her of George, and Winifred had learned that dwelling in the past could make the present unbearable. Besides Michael and Kate had a young family and she didn't want her grandchildren living in a memorial to their grandfather. The house should be full of life and laughter. So shortly after the funeral she had turned the keys of Number 17 over to Michael and found a lovely flat where she could feel at home and have her grandchildren visit anytime they wanted. Dear George, he had taken care of everything. His careful investment had kept her trust fund safe, even in this economic downturn. She had to be a bit more careful, but she didn't worry unnecessarily about money.

And she knew there was money for the children too. The bank shares were safely stored in George's desk which remained in the library and there were the accounts that George had set up at the bank. George had taken Jane and Michael's tuppence from so many years ago and invested them as a sort of joke but also as a way to teach the children about money. He added a little bit every year on their birthdays. When Michael and Kate were married George had invested the rent money they charged the couple in Michael's account. When Jane's engagement to Philip had abruptly ended he began putting a matching amount in her account. It was difficult for a single woman to find a job where she could be self-supporting George had explained to Winifred. He never wanted their daughter to feel like she had to get married to be financially secure. It was a revolutionary thought from her conservative husband, but he was right. Jane's account had given her the means to move into the modest flat where she now lived and do the work she loved.

There are things in life that you can't anticipate. She had never reckoned on Kate's illness and death. Winifred debated about moving back into the house to help Michael with the children, but found she treasured her independence and privacy. And she wanted to be grandmother to Michael's children rather than their mother. She and Jane checked in frequently to see the children and to help with various things Michael needed done. But she sensed that all was not well with her son. There were too many of Kate's possessions still in place as if she would come home any minute. Michael said he didn't want to move anything because he didn't want to upset the children, but Winifred sensed that it was Michael who was having the difficulty moving Kate's things.

And there were the everyday things about running the household that Kate had managed so well; buying the groceries, replacing the children's clothes, managing the budget. Michael seemed bewildered by all the decisions he had to make. She supposed that was normal. In spite of their surface differences, George and Michael were a great deal alike. Both men assumed the responsibility of providing for their families, but left the households to their wives. She remembered George pontificating about precision and order without a clue about how difficult it was to run a home and keep track of the children.

So she worried and watched and helped when she could. She tried not to hover and be a mother hen, because he was her child but he was an adult. She still saw herself as a caregiver, capable and strong enough to help her son when he needed it. She never anticipated that Michael would think he had to take care of her. And Jane was just as bad.

She went to visit one of her friends. Jane and Michael had the phone number and the address. They never once called or wrote or tried in any way to contact her. _She could have fixed all this mess in less than two minutes._ She could have told them where George kept the share certificates and reminded Michael about the account (it had all been in the will).

Winifred sat on the couch in the library while Michael tried to explain himself.

"I didn't want to worry you, and it all happened so fast. It wasn't even a week from the time the repossession notice was made to when we resolved the whole problem."

Things were better. Winifred could feel it. It was as if a wind had blown through the house and replaced the sense of loss with pleasant memories. Maybe clearing the house of all the furniture and having it put back in different places was a good thing. And Michael seemed better too. As if a door had opened up for him and he realized that he had so much to live for and still do. She could see a paint stain on his thumb, so she knew he was back to work. Still, she was his mother and things needed to be said. She rose from the couch and stood facing him.

"Michael you have given me the shock of a lifetime. I aged ten years when I came home to find out that you nearly lost the house and left my grandchildren homeless. In the future I wish you would worry me a little more and I might live a little longer."

She reached behind her and picked up the small bundle of objects she had brought with her. "This," she said handing him a business card, "Is the phone number of Roger White, one of your father's oldest friends. He's an accountant and has helped me with my money and investments since your father passed. You will call him this afternoon and make an appointment."

She handed him a small leather book. "This is a calendar, the same kind that your father kept on his desk. You write down your bills on the date they are due and then you cross them off when you pay them."

"And this," she finished handing him a parcel wrapped in paper, "is a lockbox. All your financial papers should be kept in here and not mixed in with your art supplies. There are two keys. I will keep the second one in case you lose the first."

She looked sternly at Michael and he looked back his mouth slightly open in shock. They looked at each other for a moment and then they both started to laugh. They laughed and laughed until they cried.

"Poor father," said Michael wiping his eyes, "if he could only be here to see you giving me financial advice."

"I wish I could see his face when you explained to him you drew a picture on the back of the share certificate," Winifred hadn't laughed this hard in ages.

She made one last gasp and looked at her son. "Michael, let me help if I can. You don't need to protect me. Please don't keep me in the dark."

"Agreed," said Michael. He put down the calendar and lock box so he could give her a proper hug.

"Now," said Winifred drawing away after they finished the hug, "tell me the rest."

"The rest?" asked Michael.

"Your sister," said Winifred. "She was so distracted this morning I couldn't get two sensible sentences out of her. What is going on with her?" She looked at Michael for a moment and then realization dawned.

"Oh no, she's fallen in love, and probably with someone totally impossible. Let me guess, she's going to marry a chimney sweep and live in a row house with no running water and a privy in the back."

"Not quite," said Michael. His mind was working furiously. Where did Jack live anyway? Maybe he should find out. He looked at his mother.

"He's really very nice. Why don't we sit down and I'll tell you what I know."

Notes:

I know the implication in the movie is that George and Winifred have both passed on, but I can't quite let go of them. I'm not just sure yet where they are in my universe, but it was fun imagining Winifred's reaction when she heard about what had happened.


	5. Summer 1915

Mr. Binnacle stood on the step outside Number 16 Cherry Tree Lane. He watched the tall angular figure hurrying towards the house. "Bert," he greeted the man and nodded towards the park. "Admiral spotted him this morning, hiding in the bushes by the band stand. Thinks he probably spent the night there."

"Thanks," said Bert. "You don't think he knows he's been spotted do you?"

"No," said Mr. Binnacle. "The Admiral saw him through his telescope. No way he could know we saw 'im."

Bert walked to the park and headed toward the band stand. He stood for a moment in the circular walkway and listened carefully. Sure enough there was a rustle in the bushes to his left. Trying to appear nonchalant, Bert walked in the direction of the sound. He knelt on the brick walkway and pulled out some bits of chalk from his pocket and began to sketch the outlines of a picture. He worked in silence for about ten minutes. Keeping his eyes on the drawing he spoke to the empty air. "You know Jack you're gonna have to come out sometime. Be good if you came out on your own. I sure could use some help with this picture." He looked up. A pair of brown eyes was looking back at him. Slowly, a small and rather dirty little boy crawled out from the bushes and came towards him. Bert handed him the blue chalk. "Why don't you work on the sky while I do the grass? You always like the sky best."

They worked silently for a while. "Anything you want to tell me?" asked Bert. The little boy shook his head and worked studiously on the sky. "You know we really need to talk. This is the third time you've run away and the nuns may not be able to let you stay if you keep this up." "Don't want to go back," muttered the boy. He looked up his eyes full of angry tears. "I want to stay with you."

"Well Jack we've talked about this and you know it won't work. I don't have a steady job or place to stay. Times is rough and you need to be in school and learning a real trade. Not sleeping rough in the park or selling matches like you would if you stayed with me. It's warm in the home and you have plenty to eat. The nuns are strict but they're not mean. 'Sides your parents would have wanted you raised Catholic. They were Catholic and they'd a wanted you to know about church and stuff."

"And those nuns, they can teach you things I never could. Sister Angela, she says you're real good at music. She says she thinks you can learn to play the piano even. You'd like that wouldn't you?"

No response. Bert sighed. "Plus if I don't take you back everyone's gonna think I kidnapped ya. I already talked to one policeman yesterday. You don' want me to be in trouble do ya?" That got a response. Jack began to cry and threw himself into Bert's arms. "I'm sorry. I don't want you to be in trouble. I just want to live with you like I used to."

"Jack I kept you as long as I could. Prob'ly a lot longer than I should've. 'Sides even if we was rich you'd 've had to go away bout now anyway."

Jack tilted his head back to look at Bert not sure about what he was saying. Bert nodded over to Cherry Tree Lane. "'S true. That Michael Banks, the one you used to wave to. Why he's been at boarding school for at least a year now. Bet his parents miss him just awful, just like I do you. But it's just the way it is. Kids need to go away to school."

Jack was silent considering what Bert had said. But Jack was an intelligent child and he wasn't buying it. "I bet Michael gets letters from his folks all the time and he visits at Christmas and summertime." He looked up at Bert, "The nuns said I couldn't see you or write even."

"Well, they wasn't trying to be mean. The sister in charge thought you'd settle in better if I didn't come around so much. You'd get real busy with your lessons and stuff and not think about the old days. Looks like she was wrong about that."

Jack nodded.

"Tell you what, if you go back and promise not to run away, I'll talk to the sister and see if she'll let me visit a little."

"Won't work," said Jack. "Angus says Sister Claire never changes her mind 'les a miracle happens."

"Angus, who's that?" asked Bert. "Are ya starting to make some friends your age?

"Yeah, he sleeps in the dorm same as me. I been teaching him Spanish so we can talk and the nuns won't know what we're saying. Only Sister Monica knows Spanish and she caught us. She thought me and Angus should speak Spanish so I wouldn't forget, but Sister Claire says only English is allowed. And she put Angus in the other room so we couldn't talk anymore. She's real strict."

Just then a playful breeze rippled through the park ruffling Jack's hair. Bert looked up at the sky a smile on his face. "Wind's from the East. You know Jack we better be getting you back to the home. You just be patient and don't run away anymore. That miracle Angus was talking about, it just might be coming."


End file.
